


Editorial Remarks

by natalexx



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins (2005), Superman - All Media Types, Superman Returns (2006), Superman Returns/Batman Begins xover
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-21
Updated: 2007-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalexx/pseuds/natalexx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What possible comparison could you draw between a man who wears bright red and flies and what I do in Gotham?" Bruce and Clark meet cute, and work it out from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the "Superman Returns" and "Batman Begins" movies, so knowledge of both necessary. Canon relationships from the movies mentioned.

"Superman Still With Us," the headline said. Alfred slapped it down in front of him with relish. "It appears you have some competition," he remarked.

Bruce flicked his gaze up briefly, leaving the paper where Alfred left it. "What possible comparison could you draw between a man who wears bright red and flies and what I do in Gotham?" he asked mildly, between breaths.

"You're both crimefighters. You're both symbolic of...something; I'm sure he has an explanation for that red cape at least as compelling as yours is for the Bat." His tone was dry.

Bruce smiled slightly, with the corner of his mouth that wasn't feeling gravity's tug. He switched arms. "I have no idea what you're getting at, Alfred," he stated blandly. He watched Alfred's feet communicate the walking equivalent of exasperation. He had too much on his plate to spare much thought for Metropolis' favorite son. Gotham was business enough and he was well aware of his limits, however often Alfred faithfully voiced his skepticism.

"I should think you would be interested in his return, just the same, Master Bruce, if only as an example of a precisely the opposite public perception to the one you so carefully cultivate for yourself." Alfred sounded altogether too amused by whatever parallel he was attempting to point out, and Bruce finally released his pose and fell back on his heels. He looked at Alfred, who simply nodded at the abandoned newspaper, lying flat on the floor next to the mat.

Bruce reached for it. It was Gotham's _Gazette_ , nothing as flashy as the _Daily Planet_. His forehead knitted as he took in the general details--the tone of the thing, apparently, more important than the actual words. "Try beneath the flap, Master Bruce," Alfred remarked. He stood perfectly posed, one arm folded behind his back, eyebrow arched. Bruce flipped the paper over and found the editorial. "Something for your scrapbook, perhaps," Alfred remarked.

Bruce stood up. "Your idea of a punchline, Alfred?"

*

Clark needed to get out of Metropolis. There was no point grounding himself in this one city, not when there was a whole world out there that needed him just as much. He didn't think anybody here would miss him much, and leaving certainly wouldn't keep him from seeing them--at the same distance he always kept.

He reminded himself that he hadn't taken as much time remembering how to be Clark Kent as he had remembering how to be Superman. There were no people--except for maybe Jimmy--to remind him how to act, to show resentment or appreciation or even murderous rage when he made an appearance as Clark Kent. No one really cared.

He reminded himself that was his own damn fault. Often.

He put his bid in for an assignment out of town, and Perry barely gave him a second glance. "Don't hold your breath, Kent. You're hardly on the short list for plum assignments," he told him bluntly.

There were ways of getting around Perry, and Clark knew of at least one. Richard had turned out to be a nice guy to have around in a lot of ways, but the oddest one was that it turned out Richard had taken over most of the daily details of the bullpen. Perry made a lot of final calls, all the final approvals, and sat in on all the business meetings, but Richard farmed out most of the assignments and nailed down the most important topics. Perry sent Superman right to the top of that list, and Richard seemed to abide by that. He just didn't make Lois cover him.

Still. Richard didn't know Clark very well, so there was no reason to expect his help. He presented the request sheepishly, hands tucked in his pants pockets and shoulders hunched obsequiously. "I guess I just...want to be back, but don't quite fit. I don't mean to sound flaky, Mr. -- er, Richard, Mr. White."

Richard grinned. His desk was piled with papers, folders, print-outs, all with red tags. His hands moved briskly, scanning one, tossing another aside, then darting back to update his computer. All the while, his attention managed to remain fastened to Clark Kent, slumped and slouchy and still standing just inside of his door. "Clark, I've seen your stuff. It's strong material. You make your deadlines, you report in, you stay on task. Honestly, I think you're an excellent asset right here in Metropolis. But if you want to go somewhere else, do some short-term work out in the field, no problem. I'll keep you in the country, and I can't promise you anything really meaty; we're talking human interest stuff, how do you feel about that?"

Clark grinned back in relief. "Sounds okay, Mr. White." He corrected himself as Richard raised a hand. "Richard. I mean. Anything you're willing to--really, I just need something to kind of break myself back in."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want something out of town?"

Clark shifted uncomfortably. "I don't really--have anything here, Richard. I still haven't found an apartment. I'm not really settled. I just thought--"

"Say no more, Clark. I think I recognize that look in your eye, and in any case, it's really not my business. But you know, you are very valuable to the _Daily Planet_." Richard reached over and started writing in jagged script on a notepad. "If you can reign in that fresh perspective you acquired on your hiatus, I have no doubt you could start turning out some terrific material." He attached the paper to the cover of a folder and started tapping on his keyboard in one sweeping motion. "I for one don't want you taking that talent somewhere else just because you don't feel comfortable here. I'll get you your assignment, if you promise to give yourself time to settle down."

Clark opened his mouth and hesitated, with a frown. "Settle down?"

"You're a man who's uneasy in his skin, Clark." Richard shrugged and stood up, bringing the folder around his desk. "The ground beneath your feet doesn't rest easy." He clasped Clark's shoulder and offered the folder. "Here's your assignment. Gotham. Far enough, but not too far, huh? Keep in touch with me. We'll miss you around here."

Clark swallowed, looking at Richard with a foolish sense of need. Richard had no idea who he was or what any of this meant, and yet Clark believed everything he said. The look in his eyes was appraising. But approving, as well. Clark extended his hand and Richard shook it warmly. "Thank you, Richard," he said, and he didn't bother stumbling awkwardly as he left.

*

Clark booked a room at a Holiday Inn Express near the airport that he later discovered was the nicest economy hotel in Gotham. He figured the location would provide reasonable cover for his own means of travel. Plus, there was wireless internet. He had to keep up on the world's latest events. Gotham seemed like the kind of place where a person could get lost in the web of streets that looked like back-alleys and highways that went through more tunnels than the metro-train.

He'd been here before. Once or twice. Gotham wasn't the kind of place where people called for help very often. Since he left and came back from Krypton, Gotham had gained its own protector. The only thing Clark knew about the Batman was that his name matched Superman's in absurdity. At least he had could lead with that if he ran into the man himself.

The true benefit of being in Gotham was that he didn't have to work so hard to put distance between Superman and Clark Kent. Stumbling over things and stammering would draw more attention than just going about his business like a normal person, even though Clark found that sometimes being clumsy was the fastest way to break the ice. With strangers in the hotel elevator, for instance, he found that wobbling a bit with his balance of Styrofoam coffee cup and plate full of continental breakfast, only to catch everything at the last instant, won him a smile from the tall man wearing cowboy boots as well as the college-aged girl wearing flannel pants. Clark liked people. He didn't like moving through his day, ignoring everyone he walked past, escaping interaction and dismissing eye contact, as though he was the only one in the world--metaphorically, that is, on top of his personally literal status.

"That could have been embarrassing," Clark said with an honestly relieved grin.

The girl slightly shrugged her shoulders, lifting the two cups, each a precarious perch for a plate of breakfast, that she had in her hands. "I know the feeling."

"Catching a flight or visiting town?" the other man asked. He looked mildly curious as he took in Clark's tie-less business attire.

"Visiting," Clark replied. "On assignment. I'm a journalist for the _Daily Planet_." He waited a beat as they nodded in recognition. It didn't pay to push strangers. "I'm supposed to look into this Batman phenomenon."

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. "Well, good luck with that," the man remarked, on his way out.

"Good morning," Clark responded, slightly disappointed. He had hoped to nudge out a response. Invoking the Batman was supposed to prompt sensation, but his expression had barely registered, and now he was gone.

"What's your angle?" the girl asked as the doors closed. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup. He could tell she'd just rolled out of bed. He found most people weren't this friendly so early in the morning, so even though he didn't want to encourage her flirtation, he smiled back and responded quickly.

"Did you read that editorial asking why Gotham could only produce a hero like Batman?"

"Yeah," she snorted. "I have a friend who lives here, and she totally agreed with it. Metropolis must be a better place to live, because they have Superman, right? So what I want to know is, what are all these high society types doing hanging out here? I mean, you've got people like Bruce Wayne, right, throwing money around, keeping the city afloat like it's his own personal island, but how else is Gotham even connected to the real world? It's eerie, I'm telling you, coming here for a visit is like leaving the country, like except that you don't need a passport."

The elevator stopped on Clark's floor, and she walked out with him, turning down the hallway in the same direction. He listened intently, instantly making connections between the way she saw the situation and what the _Daily Planet_ audience would want to read about.

She stopped and hesitated, looking at her hands. "You mind holding this for a minute?"

"No, sure," he said, taking one of the cup-plate combos in his free hand. She fished her key card out of her pant pocket and ran it through the lock on the door to their right, holding the door open with her foot as she reached back for her breakfast tower. "Thanks."

"Well, maybe I'll try to get Bruce Wayne's take on the Batman-Superman comparison," Clark remarked with a smile.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you want to go to all that trouble to get a himbo's unprintable quote about how saving the world is less interesting than partying with one of the girls from Victoria's Secret. I actually met this guy once, and trust me, he can't carry on an intelligent conversation." She shrugged. "But still. Could be great for the funny pages." She grinned and backed into the room. "Have fun."

He nodded. "Nice to meet you." He waved briefly and moved on down the hall to his own room, far back in the corner near the stairwell. Bruce Wayne and the Batman were arguably the two most recognizable names connected with Gotham. Maybe there was something there he could dig out. He used to think he could get really good at this job, even though being Superman tended to more than consume even his above-average focus. Part of reconnecting to his life, the life that actually grounded him on this planet, definitely involved remembering what being journalist actually meant.

*

Having once attracted his interest to the topic, Alfred subsequently gathered and provided copies of, no doubt, every newspaper in the country that had picked up the article comparing Superman and the Batman. Bruce scanned them impatiently in the back seat of the limo on the way to brunch. "Journalistic invention has seriously deteriorated in this country if this is all the most reputable papers in the world are producing now." He tossed aside a rag from Star City. "More like _*re*_ producing, they're just picking up that trash from the _Gazette_. Where's the _Daily Planet_ 's take on this?"

"The _Planet_ has not deigned to publish the article, sir. In point of fact, if my memory proves me correct, I do not believe the _Daily Planet_ has run a single word about the Batman since his appearance in Gotham." Alfred wasn't smiling in the rear-view mirror, but he sounded absolutely tickled. Bruce scowled.

"I don't need publicity in Metropolis," he responded. On the other hand, the fact that a paper like the _Daily Planet_ wasn't taking him seriously could have consequences, and he should consider that. He made a mental note.

"Certainly, sir. You can content yourself that a reputable paper like the _Daily Planet_ will not be running stories about Gotham's special creature of the night any time soon."

Bruce rolled his eyes. Ordinarily, he counted on Alfred's particular habit of brusque skepticism to forge his path through all the minutiae of leading Bruce Wayne's life. In this case, he found he was genuinely annoyed. The Batman was not a joke to be bandied about in newspapers. The Batman was meant to be a shadow, mostly intangible, flitting through the alleys at night. He should be just around every corner, so that even when he, Bruce Wayne, could not always know where he was needed most, the dark specter the criminals had learned to fear would work independent of his presence to deter crime. "It'd be nice to see these reporters actually do some research before glibly misinforming the public at large," he mumbled, looking out the window as Gotham's rainy streets swam past.

"No doubt one or two have attempted to interview the Batman and met with the sort of peril to life and limb that even the most intrepid reporter could not overcome," Alfred remarked dryly.

"They don't need a sound bite from Batman to take the pulse of Gotham," Bruce slowly responded. "The power to misrepresent the people to themselves is its own sort of despotism, Alfred. An evil Batman can't fight."

"Not, perhaps, by himself," Alfred responded crisply. With a familiar wry sense of surprise, Bruce recognized the conclusion to an argument Alfred had been presenting, patient and methodical in his intent, since the paper appeared that morning.

*

Clark straightened his tie, or rather, pulled it just enough askew that he looked rumpled without coming undone. He was wearing his uniform and his shirt was buttoned all the way up. He looked like both an out-of-towner and a journalist, telegraphing his information to all the high rollers, high society, and hangers-on present at a Gotham charity brunch. Eyes glanced, scanned briefly, and passed him by. He kept his distance, stood in a corner by a ficus bush with a tiny plate less substantial than that at the hotel breakfast bar, and looked uncomfortable. The pose wasn't entirely false.

Bruce Wayne arrived late--well dressed or well tailored, whatever difference might be noted by the fashion reporters darting up to him--and wasn't at the party for more than sixty seconds before he was joined, in the blink between two jocular conversations and one waiter passing by, by a tall bellini in one gracefully dexterous grasp.

He meandered his way across the patio, off-handing comments to seated and mobile guests without actually stopping to engage in conversation. He answered the questions of a few reporters when asked, flirting with the females and standing too close to the men. Eventually, Clark became aware that he was actually moving toward his little spot on the far end of the balcony. Clark leaned against the broad stone railing, icy as though unconvinced by the seasonal transition, and he thought about it. Bruce had scanned the group when he first entered by the French doors from the hotel. It was brief, but assessing. He didn't choose his course across the patio by accident. The billionaire playboy appeared at ease with the sunshine, the liquor, and maybe the more prurient interest of the women crossing their legs as he passed their chairs, yet he was actually quite intent.

"Clark Kent, _Daily Planet_ ," Bruce Wayne greeted him loudly, extending his hand. He glanced at the half-full glass in it, shrugged, and drew it back. "Must be a slow news day in Metropolis."

Clark smiled, keeping his chin tucked toward his chest. "Actually, Mr. Wayne, I was hoping to run into you this morning."

He smiled, slowly, a jagged, toothy smile that faded just as slowly as he leaned into Clark's space. "Did you," he said.

Clark hesitated, mildly confused. He suspected it was the effect Bruce Wayne was striving for. "Yes, I'm in Gotham for a few weeks working on various stories. Nothing too..." he paused a moment, searching for the word. "Stimulating," he finally said lamely.

He laughed, bringing his glass up to his lips as he looked away. Losing interest or pretending to, at least. "There are always ways around that problem," he remarked. He raised his eyebrows. "Believe me, I would know."

"I'd appreciate the input," Clark replied, then went on casually, "Since you obviously arrived so well-prepared, perhaps you can point me toward some of the other people I should talk to here."

The man swiveled back toward Clark, a wave of attention that Clark caught himself meeting with a direct stare. They looked at each other for an abrupt moment, then mutually relaxed. Bruce's mouth curved up without showing his teeth again. "There's no one here who can put together a sentence, much less something worthy of the _Daily Planet_. What are you really interested in?"

Clark considered this. "Batman," he said finally. "I'd like to follow up on the story comparing Batman and Superman that was recently printed in the _Gotham Gazette_."

Bruce smirked. "Ah, the flying man--should I say, men." The pace of his words suddenly quickened. "Listen, why don't we continue this conversation somewhere else." He reached past Clark to set his glass on the stone pedestal. Clark looked over his shoulder at the advancing society phalanx.

"Aren't you a major donor?" he asked, demurely.

"That's Wayne Industries," he brushed the million-dollar grant aside, taking Clark's arm. Clark didn't resist as he pulled him around the ficus and down the stairs. Once safely walking through the landscaped garden, almost marching around the extensive variety of running fountains as Bruce set the pace and Clark took his lead, Bruce smiled at Clark. "I'm merely the public face of the company, really, Clark," he announced. "If you're any kind of reporter, and I do have an instinct, you'd find out my secret shame eventually. Might as well hear it from me." He tossed off that disparaging smirk again. "Now we can move onto something truly interesting."

Clark considered, and discarded, several inquiries. He settled for a clueless variation. "Like what?"

Bruce lead him out the garden gates and ran a hand through his precisely straight hair. "Are you into speed?" he asked, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his charcoal trousers as he looked back at Clark challengingly.

Clark scrutinized him levelly. "In general, I prefer genuine risks to pointless thrill-seeking."

Bruce laughed shortly, with skeptical eyes. "Get a lot of excitement in your natural course of life, do you, Clark?"

Clark shrugged, sheepishly. "I'm a reporter. Opportunity is...everywhere."

Bruce surveyed him carefully. Clark's clothes were not nearly rumpled enough for this man. He shifted his feet. At last, Bruce rubbed his lips lightly, and nodded. "Let's see if we can find you a thrill that's more...practical."

*

He shouldn't be doing this. As Clark Kent, he side stepped, bumbled, and generally just avoided strenuous physical activity. Few of the people he knew would even think of inviting him to go rock climbing.

He actually had to fly his uniform back to the hotel in the few minutes he was supposed to be changing in the private dressing rooms. Risking the flight seemed smarter than trying to hide it behind the toilet, or even out on the grounds somewhere. At least the suitcase in his room locked.

The rock wall was _*inside*_ Wayne Manor. On the ride back to Bruce's home, Clark sat in the back seat with the man and observed his comfortable ease with the man driving the Bentley and the way both pairs of their stretched-out legs managed to eat up the luxurious space. They eyed each other as they made small talk--Bruce sketching out Gotham's history vocally as they threaded her streets, Clark dutifully asking background questions for routine--and neither of them believed the persona the other was presenting. The odd thing was that it felt like tacit recognition.

Who was this man? He certainly was more than he seemed. Clark could not shake a sense of suspicion, built into him reflexively by past exposure to bored, intelligent billionaires and their bizarre schemes.

"Is this your normal tactic for interviews?" Clark asked, awkwardly fiddling with the carabiner and climbing harness.

"Easier to side-step the awkward questions," Bruce replied. As he looked up the wall--way up--his expression was ferocious.

Clark eyed him. "Have something to hide?" he asked.

Bruce laughed without glancing over at him. "Why bother? All of my secrets are splashed across the tabloids eventually." He reached out and hoisted one leg up to his first step. "Living a life of wild decadence means never sitting down to chat about the details. There's something for your personality profile, Clark." He shouted the comment down, already high above Clark's head now. He moved very quickly, the muscles of his shoulders and arms clearly used to this kind of effort, every movement carefully placed but incautious. He trusted his hand to hold him when he lost his footing, and his foot to catch when he had no grip. Clark watched him closely, but where Bruce should have faltered, he accommodated instead, and kept moving until he reached the top and slapped the top of the rail. He looked back over his shoulder at Clark before he belayed back to the ground, and grinned widely. "Didn't exactly give me a run for my money, Clark."

"I'm hardly in your economic bracket, Bruce," he said dryly. "You know, I didn't really come to Gotham looking for celebrity gossip."

Bruce started tugging at Clark's harness and fiddling with clasps. "Batman's a sort of celebrity, isn't he? The worst sort, you ask me. Some of us inherit public attention...and live the sort of life that retains their interest," he raised an eyebrow briefly in acknowledgment. "And then you have Batman." He turned his back and strolled away. Clark turned slightly, careful of his gear, watching him. "He shows up in some Gotham back-alley and never shows his face, but if he really wanted to be mysterious, who would even know he was there?" Bruce turned to face Clark and his eyes were slightly hard. He spread his hands, like an afterthought.

"You think Batman's spreading his own myth?"

Bruce smiled, but it wasn't really a smile. He just curled his lips. "I think he's hogging the spotlight," he replied coolly.

Clark scrunched up his forehead behind his glasses and looked clueless. Bruce's expression dropped from his face and he gestured for Clark to start climbing. "Just take one foot-hold at a time." He let Clark get several feet up the wall before he spoke again. "Gotham isn't just Batman, Clark."

"Huh?" Clark answered back, breathlessly.

"The Bat doesn't represent this city just because he's what the tabloids write about. He's a minority, he's one man on the streets. Gotham--the people--are capable of...much more."

Clark paused, steadying his grip. "You have to admit, the idea of a city that cultivates someone like Batman, who takes it upon himself to give back to society by prowling the streets, is pretty intriguing, though, Bruce."

"Hm," Bruce grunted. "It also produced someone like me."

Clark glanced back carefully and met Bruce's eyes. He was swinging the loose end of the rope absently, a towel hung around his neck. Clark nodded. "You're definitely a contrast to Batman, Bruce," he said, gazing back toward the ceiling.

*

Richard was interested.

Clark sent him a wordy e-mail proposing a piece on Bruce Wayne and Batman as two faces of Gotham. He shot back a demand for an accompanying article comparing Superman and Lex Luthor as the contrasting profile of Metropolis.

The quickness of his reply lead Clark's thoughts somewhere they had no right to go. Was Richard still at the office at this hour? Was Lois there? He pictured the man at home, work papers and laptop spread across the dining room table. Jason, perhaps, was lingering over his dinner and talking about his school day. Clark didn't know where Lois would be. Working at her own computer? Cleaning up the table? He couldn't find her spot in this family tableau in his head. But wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it must have been as natural as any other night with her family. It was--normal. For them. Clark envied them at the same time as he accepted just how much he would never fit in. And Lois--he still loved her, but he was beginning to think he could live without her. Even live around her, on the outside edge.

Underneath his name, Richard wrote:

P.S. Do you think you can actually find Batman?

Clark sighed. _Of course I can,_ he typed. Whether or not he used his own special talents to do it, he was, after all, a reporter. Wasn't he?

*

"I do hate to dissuade you from any potential alternative careers, Master Bruce, but I am afraid I must inform you: you are not a very good actor, Master Bruce." Alfred's eyebrows were raised as high as they could get, which generally indicated he was serious about what he said. Not that Bruce was any more inclined to take his advice on these occasion than he usually did, barring circumstances that actually allowed him to bow to Alfred's wet nurse wisdom.

He continued throwing things out of the walk-in closet. Alfred looked physically pained to let the silk shirts, tailored pants, and even Calvin Klein underwear remain as they landed--most of them, on the floor. "Alfred, it doesn't matter if he can tell I'm a fake. All playboys are a mask for varying degrees of rampant insecurity and masculine incompetence. It's what he expects."

Alfred sighed. It was eloquent.

"What's the matter, Alfred?" Bruce prodded, tossing the comment over his shoulder along with a light blue shirt. Might as well send the navy coat with it. "Don't you like him?"

Alfred responded with a hint of censure in his tone that moved Bruce to stand up and look at his butler. "Master Clark appears exceptionally up-standing, polite, whip-smart, and, if what I've seen of him so far might be called reliable, extremely likely to see through more than your so-called playboy facade."

Bruce leaned his forearm against the frame of the door and ran his thumb across his own forehead. "You think he's looking for something else?"

Alfred looked at Bruce sternly. "I think he's exactly what he claims to be."

"Unlike me," Bruce finished for him. He was not exactly immune to Alfred's opinions--he found they were right, more often than not--nor to his chastisement. He just couldn't see a way to navigate around Alfred's concerns and still achieve his goal. "Alfred," Bruce said slowly. "I chose Clark because he's experienced, but hungry enough that he'd take a fluff piece like this Batman-Bruce Wayne profile and write it in a way that people will remember this. I need people to remember that Bruce Wayne is the opposite of Batman." He straightened and clasped a hand to Alfred's shoulder. "This will make things easier in the long run. This may be the last time we have to work so hard to convince someone."

Alfred's lips thinned briefly. "Yes, Master Bruce."

Bruce nodded. It wasn't Alfred that he was worried about; Alfred might play many roles, but he was always Alfred. It was this creature he'd made of Bruce Wayne that was the problem. Bruce found himself slipping too often--too easily--with Clark. He spoke too often when it wasn't about himself. He returned his gaze too steadily. There was a careful balance to be kept in this charade, a sequence of ingredients that retained credulity and demonstrated uninhibited frivolity. Bruce put his fingers to his lips thoughtfully, and surveyed his bedroom strategically.

*

The photographer assigned to him for the job worked freelance, and was more accustomed to capturing fashion than people in their natural habitats. He nodded briefly when Clark explained the job, and the entire photo shoot was over before Clark realized he wasn't just testing the lighting. Clark missed Jimmy Olsen. In all the years Clark had worked with Jimmy, mainly on unimportant and sometimes redundant stories, he never lost the compelling need to photograph his subject perfectly. Jimmy didn't always get his shot right away, but he knew how to capture a concept and wasn't satisfied until he did.

Clark sighed. "We might have used the publicity shots everyone already has and saved you the trouble, I'm sorry," he said to Bruce Wayne.

Bruce smiled. It edged on weary, though in the pictures he reflected nothing but languid grace. Clark paused in his assessment, uncertain whether Bruce had seemed tired when he arrived this afternoon, but absolutely sure that his shoulders had not started to slump until after the photographer left. Bruce turned on his heel at the bottom of the giant staircase and started climbing the stairs. "Come with me. We can continue this conversation while I change into something less..." He was smirking, though Clark couldn't see it, when he finished, "Fashion statement."

"Here I thought that was your natural state," Clark replied in a low voice, because he wasn't sure if he was supposed to joke with this man. Bruce's laugh was a muted chuckle, and Clark called it gracious.

The master bedroom was a mess, clothes flung everywhere carelessly. "Don't tell Alfred I let you see this," Bruce said, stopping in the middle of the floor to look back at him. The cuffs on his silk shirt were unbuttoned, peeking out from the sleeves of his suit jacket. His tie was loose, and he started to undo it. He pursed his lips. "Ordinarily I have a fashion consultant for this sort of thing, but today was rather last minute."

"You managed to dress yourself."

Bruce shrugged lazily. "Yes, but when Cynthia does it, it's more of a pleasure." He raised an eyebrow, hardly subtle.

Clark hesitated, and nodded. It seemed momentarily strange to him that he had never actually seen Bruce Wayne with a woman in person, despite his fabled repute. He walked further into the room, picking up items of expensive brand-name clothing in order to avoid stumbling over them. There was one dark brown loafer. He observed that he and Bruce Wayne wore the same size shoe. He smiled slightly. "Did you have a late night last night? You seem a little tired."

Bruce dropped his jacket in the vicinity of a tall-backed chair, and it slid to the floor along with everything else. "I wasn't able to sleep quite as late as I would have chosen this morning," he said without a trace of embarrassment. Clark leaned down and picked up the jacket. "Someone's trained you well," Bruce commented, eying the collection of discarded clothing draped over Clark's arm. "Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

"Mother," Clark replied seriously.

Bruce's mouth quirked, too small and quick not to be honest. "I see."

Clark dropped his head and blushed. "I might as well...put these away..." He looked around for the closet.

Bruce seemed to be plucking lint off Clark's coat sleeve. "Alfred will be offended."

"He can't do everything." Clark looked at Bruce, ostensibly ignoring the long fingers dancing absently over his shoulder. "Don't you have staff?"

Bruce smiled again. His ploys to divert interest were strangely obvious, but they were indeed distracting. Clark couldn't see beyond them to whatever Bruce wanted to shield. Bruce flourished his other hand. "Oh, I suppose he hires in help. Tiresome jobs like counting the silver or family jewels. He has some sort of household budget I'm sure he spends quite thriftily. Alfred is the only truly responsible person I know." He smirked down at the clothes. "Until now. No wonder Alfred likes you."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be." Bruce pushed Clark's shoulder to turn him around. "Right here."

The closet was extravagant, of course. Clark went about hanging shirts and trousers for several minutes, keeping all of the displaced clothes together in one corner for fear of disorganizing some complex accoutrement system. By the time he turned around, Bruce had changed into a black shirt with long sleeves and was glancing at his watch. "You still up for questions this afternoon? If you want to put off the interview..."

Bruce moved deeper into the closet. "I am feeling a little restless. Really, Clark, let me help you spice this story of yours up. I know of several clubs where I'm rather well liked, the result of lavish tips, and owning them helps as well--how do you feel about continuing this conversation somewhere else?"

Clark raised his eyebrows, keeping his chin down. His glasses slipped down his nose. "Again, Bruce? I'm beginning to wonder if you ever sit still while you talk." Bruce reached out, suddenly, and pushed his glasses up his nose. Clark was startled and flinched away from it. Bruce smirked.

He leaned in, pressing his weight against Clark's chest on the fingers of his right hand, a touch that was almost more intimate than the heat of his breath brushing Clark's lips that immediately followed. "Well, I'm beginning to wonder if you get out at all," he murmured, too far into Clark's personal space to be anything but suggestive. As he shifted back onto his heels, Bruce's hand fell in an exploratory move down the front of Clark's shirt, brushing against Clark's abdomen.

Clark noted that Bruce was expecting a certain reaction from him. "I don't know how you do interviews in Gotham, but this isn't exactly acceptable by _Daily Planet_ standards," Clark said softly. Then he paused. He bit his lower lip nervously.

Bruce's expression flickered toward disdainful like a switch. And while he brushed Clark aside in reaction to the diffident denial, pushing past him to exit the closet, Clark saw that his eyes were steady. Clark turned away, watching him around the edges of his glasses, and Bruce's gaze slipped to Clark's forehead when Clark looked straight at him. Had Clark pushed instead of pulled back, Bruce would have sidestepped the offer. It was a game; perhaps a real seduction, but not a real offer.

Clark slid out of the closet uneasily and allowed himself to fidget as Bruce went on. "I hope at least your questions are more original than your photographs, or this story will be a real bore."

Just as Clark opened his mouth to respond, Bruce turned and carried on, pulling a leather jacket off another chair and slinging it across his back. "Do you have any idea how much money I accumulate in the amount of time you spent here this afternoon? A--" He grinned again, the sharp grin aimed to startle his victim. " _Truly_ ridiculous amount. I'm sure my stock-owners would at least prefer that I spend my time at some amusement rather than endlessly chatting about myself."

Clark raised his eyebrows as he followed Bruce out the door. "Um, I'm sorry, Bruce," he said, "but you did agree to this--"

Bruce tossed a look at him over his shoulder. "You can't be much of a journalist if you think you can actually rely on my commitments, Kent," he barked, half-jogging down the stairs. "Alfred!" he called. "I'm going out!"

Alfred appeared. "Will Mr. Kent be staying with us, sir?"

Bruce glared at the old man. "No, show him out," he snapped. Then he was gone, just like that, out his own front door and around the corner to the garage. Clark didn't bother listening for the roar of an expensive automobile peeling out; he turned to Alfred.

"Gee, Alfred," he said dryly. "I hope I didn't upset Mr. Wayne."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Never you fear, sir. On the rare occasion Master Bruce is perturbed by anything, he soon overcomes it. Allow me to drive you home, Master Kent."

*

Bruce didn't need anything cluttering his mind. He didn't need guilt on his conscience, because he had done what was necessary to throw the reporter off his track. He didn't need it, but he found himself patrolling the business district near the airport, an area where he was rarely needed. The dock yards tended to attract more of the criminal element Batman was capable of handling, and the airport had its own layer of security. Clark Kent's hotel was not a high risk priority. Yet it happened that Batman came across a small and bored gang, not far from their turf and probably testing the security of the area--and he felt the acid satisfaction of being in the right place at the right time, through instinct alone.

He knew this gang, and over half of them were boys who ought to be in school, had Gotham's inner city schools anything tangible to offer them. They looked for vulnerability, and they were vicious when they took it. He knew this area, too, better than they, and he found their mark first, too: a girl outside the Holiday Inn, chin and hands tucked into her hooded sweatshirt against the chill of Gotham's night as she hurried across the shadowed parking lot, heading for the alley to the back of the hotel. Batman settled on his haunches and surveyed them from the roof straight above, close enough to grab her himself and with less fuss than the scuffling and taunting that accompanied the approach of the threat.

Then, suddenly, Clark Kent was there, stumbling out of the door into the alley way. "Oh, hey, girl in 315," he said loudly. The rest of his words did not carry naturally, but he held the door open for her, and she disappeared back into safety, oblivious.

Batman watched Clark Kent walk down the alleyway the direction the girl came, heading inexorably toward the ambush. His hands were tucked into his pockets, shoulders hunched and head down. A target, in every line of language his body was shouting. Bruce Wayne had taken advantage of that himself. Batman's reset his angle grimly. Clark Kent would take over every part of his life, it seemed, and sometimes Bruce felt half helpless to stop him. But he would stop him in this. Clark Kent would see the dark side of Gotham, but he would survive intact.

Batman used the Batarangs. He hit the ground in the alley before the first man ever reached Clark Kent, in the moment between Clark Kent's awareness of trouble and his next instinct to turn heel and run, and he sent the leader flying across the alley with a boot to his stomach. Clark Kent stood stock-still behind him, and he never moved from that spot, watching with eyes wide-open, every time Batman reassessed his surroundings.

He was, Bruce saw, at heart a reporter, after all.

*

Not many people got the chance to meet Batman. That was probably why no one ever realized he was Bruce Wayne. It had to be, because otherwise, Clark was just giving himself too much credit. And he hadn't even used his powers to see through the mask.

Batman loomed over him, and Clark kept his shoulders drawn in toward his chest and his hands wringing while his eyes darted back and forth across the alley, chasing shadows in the corner of his gaze. "What, this neighborhood--it's supposed to be safe," he insisted. He put his hand over his mouth. "I guess I should know better, I'm not fresh off the farm--wait, while you're here, don't you want to comment on my article?" He stood up and started forward the instant he saw the muscles coil under Batman's suit, and in response his hesitation was infinitesimal, but he settled back on his haunches above Clark, on the fire escape. He didn't even cast a profile against the wall of the tall building, and to most people he would disappear between the absolute stillness of the dark and the illusive wind in his cape. But Clark had better vision than most, and watched him carefully, though focused on the wrong place--the hard curve of the mask on his forehead, the reinforced heel of his boot, the hand on his utility belt tensed in readiness.

"No comment," he returned in the low growl that must be the result of voice modulation technology. Bruce had the money for such things.

"You saved me. I owe you. I'd like to print something accurate about you for once," Clark offered quickly. Bruce had not spoken of Batman fondly, and Clark considered the possibility that he suffered from a dissociative disorder.

Perhaps not, as the man moved sideways, a fluid motion intended to slide away from the shadows while his audience stood unaware. "I can arrange a meeting with Superman," Clark called up to him, blurting it out like a junior reporter.

Batman replied, "I'll think about it," and then he was gone before even Clark could gauge his real response.

Clark gritted his teeth briefly, left alone. Perhaps the man was better left a mystery, but perhaps in his current occupation he was also dangerous. Superman could not let him roam the streets planning some malicious end game, and a _Daily Planet_ journalist could only work with reliable facts. Even if it came to a choice between Superman's knowledge and the paper's, Clark needed to know the measure of the man. No matter which of his resources it took to get to him.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred opened the door to Clark and nodded in greeting. "Master Kent. Good afternoon."

"Afternoon, Alfred. Lord of the Manor up yet?" Clark would swear Alfred's mouth twitched.

"I believe he is, sir, but he already has a guest."

"That's alright, Alfred. I'm just leaving." The female voice interrupted from the other side of the door. Alfred stepped back mutely and allowed Clark to step inside the foyer. Bruce Wayne stood there with a dark haired woman dressed for business.

"Clark Kent, reporter, this is Rachel Dawes, assistant D.A." Bruce gestured between them casually.

"Hi, nice to meet you," she nodded at Clark. "Bruce told me you had an appointment. I just came by to say hi to an old friend."

Her gaze was reserved and assessing, but her smile was kind, and Clark liked her, but she seemed all wrong with her arm around Bruce Wayne's neck. Especially while he was smirking and leaning back into his heels, his hands still tucked in his pockets. She kissed him lightly, and looked undisturbed as she pulled back. She smiled and shook Clark's hand. "I'm afraid I have to get back to work--"

"Always busy, Rachel. Never enough time to play," Bruce butted in. She glanced at him, and it looked a little like a reprimand, but she kept smiling.

"That's right. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent. Don't let him walk all over you," she added in an exaggerated murmur. She waved at Alfred as she left.

"Good afternoon, Miss Dawes," he said, shutting the door behind the woman.

Bruce's smile was languid when Clark looked inquiringly at him. "I don't see her in the society pages."

Bruce laughed. "I told you," he raised his eyebrows, "She never has time to play."

Alfred cleared his throat. "Master Bruce," he interjected, "Shall I offer the gentlemen some refreshment?"

"Certainly, Alfred," Bruce returned, turning his sharp gaze on him. "Some milk and cookies, Kent? You can eat them at the kitchen table, if you're interested." He turned and started walking in the direction of the library as he said it. "I'm sure your mother could do better, but we make do with what we get here in Gotham..."

Clark followed him. Alfred's expression betrayed nothing as he passed him, except Clark knew the terseness of polite company in the presence of the ill-mannered, and he grinned easily. "That'd be swell, Alfred, if you have them." Alfred's eyebrows raised slightly, and he nodded gravely as Clark passed him. Bruce Wayne was Batman, and that meant he was playing a game. And now that Clark knew that for certain, he wasn't going to give up his advantage so easily.

"I was thinking about you last night," Clark said, entering the library through the massive wooden doorway. Bruce tossed him a glance over his shoulder, its briefness not enough to betray discomfort. He rubbed his mouth absently and hummed. Clark tucked his hair back behind his ears and adjusted his glasses. Bruce was watching him out of the corner of his gaze, he felt sure.

"You have no idea how often I hear that line," Bruce remarked, his slight smile deprecating aimed at Clark.

"I'm sure," Clark replied, off-hand. "But it was actually when I met Batman."

Bruce was already still, leafing slowly through a newspaper on the desk, and nothing changed. His movements were deliberate, his attention sharp. "You actually met the Bat? How did you manage that?" Clark said nothing until Bruce glanced up. "Well?" he repeated. "I suppose it's rare that you have the story to tell, hm, Kent?"

Clark smiled. He looked at his feet. "I'm afraid I was a bit of a damsel in distress last night, Bruce." He paused. "It is still, I hope, Bruce, isn't it?"

Bruce swallowed. Clark caught it without raising his eyes. "Sure, why not," he replied. "Who the hell calls me Mr. Wayne?"

"Does it make you feel like your father?" Clark asked. His voice was quiet.

"Interview's already started? You’re mildly cunning after all, Kent."

"Clark," he said.

"Clark..."

Alfred stepped through the door behind Clark. "I have Master Clark's cookies, sir."

Bruce glanced him over. The look on his face flickered, for an extended moment,with dissatisfaction and then something very close to regret. He turned away as Alfred set the tray on the low table near the windows. "Will there be anything else, sir?" Alfred asked. 

"Not for me, Alfred," Bruce replied.

"Thanks, Alfred," Clark said. He was already selecting a cookie, and Alfred handed him a tall glass of milk, with a serious expression.

"I took the liberty to select whole milk as your preference, Master Clark."

Clark grinned, widely, and took the glass. Alfred winked.

"He really does like you," Bruce murmured, after a long moment with the silence Alfred left them in.

"Is that important to you?" Clark replied, sitting down in a surprisingly comfortable settee and eating another cookie.

"Of course. Alfred...practically raised me, after my parents' death." Bruce turned back to him. His eyes were shadowed, more like the eyes last night. "This is all public record."

"Yes."

Bruce stared at him. "What do you want from me?" he asked finally.

Clark looked back at him for a moment, and then tapped the other glass. "This must be for you, because I'm definitely not drinking it."

Bruce glanced at what seemed to be a tall drink of very green grass, and slowly sat, in the seat across from Clark.

"It surprised me, when I started to look at this big idea to divide up Gotham by dark and seedy or light and hopeful. I thought Batman was the dark knight, the crusader living among the criminals and the gangsters, taking them down one by one. Then I met you and I realized you're the side of Gotham that's been hurt by all this--the crime, the class divide. Bruce Wayne felt all the consequences, and Batman acted on them."

Bruce stiffened. "Don't compare me to that maniac," he said, almost perfunctory.

"No, you're two sides of the same coin. Batman's doing something, I don't know what it is, but he's doing something out there in the streets that people are talking about. And you're doing something people are talking about, as well, only you're--well, you're doing it up here on the hill, or in the boardroom at Wayne Corp."

Bruce's casualness was held with barely concealed tension the entire time Clark spoke. Now he eased back in his chair and smiled, watching his fingers as he twirled the case to a cigar. "I have the castle, he has the might--is that your angle? Something the _Daily Planet_ can get behind? It doesn't sound particularly flattering."

Clark found himself sitting back in his seat, as well, and watching Bruce too close. He made himself sit up and brace his hands on his knees, the settee too low for his height. "Maybe not. If only I could get Superman and Batman in the same room to talk...boy, that'd be a story. Even without quotes, just to confirm they ever talked!"

Bruce snorted. "Superman be responsible for making Batman credible in the world's eyes?"

"If he did, it would be because he considered him trustworthy, and everyone would know that," Clark replied in a low voice.

Bruce didn't look at him. His profile was thoughtful, and he gazed into the distance silently as Clark dipped his last cookie into his milk and carefully did not smile.

*

"If I may say so, Master Bruce, the young man's proposal is hardly deserving of this kind of back-breaking consideration."

"You heard."

"I am quite put out with you, matter of fact, Master Bruce, over your behavior this afternoon."

"Don't worry about it, Alfred. My back will recover just fine."

"Wasn't your back I was talking about, sir."

Bruce smiled against the cushion of the head rest, eyes unfocused on the page of the book spread out beneath. "You know, I could hire a masseuse."

"And how would you explain these scars and bruises then, hm?"

"Pay them enough and they wouldn't care," Bruce replied flippantly.

Alfred pinched his shoulder. It loosened something, but it made Bruce flinch for the moment. "Perhaps you should try that with young Mr. Kent, then, Master Bruce," he said. The disapproval was rolling off his voice, now, Alfred apparently finally grown impatient with moderating his opinion on the issue.

"You think I should do what he asks, then."

"Can't think why you wouldn't, Master Bruce." Bruce exhaled deeply and tried to separate his misgivings from the possibility that he was truly being offered a working knowledge of Superman. "Aside from your megalomaniac need to know what is going to happen next," Alfred harangued, apparently not receiving the response he wanted. He continued kneading the tension out of Bruce's back. "This is why no one invites you to the movies."

Bruce smiled slightly and decided to keep his capitulation to himself. 

*

It was not, of course, that Bruce had ever specifically decided to have nothing to do with Superman. It was simply that he saw it as fact. He came up as a topic of conversation every so often in the circles Bruce Wayne traveled, in the nature of drunken confessions of lust or jealousy, or when mocking Batman became predictable. Superman was the media's hero. He appeared in papers regularly in full-color print, smiling for the cameras as he lifted cars over his head or brought a plane in for a safe landing. It was nothing like Batman's job. He had, it was true, swooped into Gotham a few times while Bruce was still benumbed to Gotham's problems and wallowing in his narcissistic obsession with self-loathing. His disappearance from the planet was hardly necessary to spur Gotham's already entrenched underworld to further excess. Gotham needed a full-time guardian. Superman appeared once in Gotham, shortly after his return. He found Batman already at the scene of the crime, and Batman remembered he hovered there--above the gas station--for a moment, before he left. He hadn't been back, though Bruce had to admit uneasily that he had the capability to be up there, watching. Perhaps waiting for Batman to make the mistake that would allow him to call down voices of authority on the vigilante stalking Gotham's streets.

That was why Bruce ultimately agreed to this meeting. Alfred could think what he liked, but Bruce couldn't ignore the need for a meeting. It brought extra complication, and grated on him by its resemblance to an evaluation, but eventually it would be necessary, and it was better dealt with now while Gotham was not notably besieged by the mob or its newer, costumed enemies. 

Superman, despite all appearances, did have some comprehension on the application of subtlety. He dropped into Bruce's meeting place unobtrusively, straight out of the sky--with any luck, without attracting any notice from Gotham at large, which could be half-destroyed by frenzied citizens and opportunistic looters by the time anyone settled down enough to realize there was no crisis at hand.

He extended his hand. "Batman."

Bruce supposed the polite response would be to take off his gauntlet. But there was a place for bluntness, and this was it. He shook his hand briskly, no meeting of skin on skin--did Superman have warm hands?

Superman didn't comment. His face bore serious lines, his eyes focused. This man must have three or five other places to be in the world, saving villages and stopping train wrecks. Batman decided to be brisk. "Perhaps you can clarify the purpose of this meeting. I'm not interested in a publicity stunt."

Superman's face, again, showed no response. "Nor am I. But I appreciate the chance to meet you face to face. I prefer to deal with people while looking them in the eye."

"What is it you want to discuss?"

"You want to keep me out of your city," Superman said bluntly. "I can only guarantee my absence if I'm absolutely sure Gotham doesn't need my help."

"What will convince you?"

Superman assessed Batman, arms crossed, feet braced. "You aren't giving me much to work with, here."

Batman hesitated. He turned his head, because his ear piece was picking up an alarm five blocks away. "Go ahead," Superman said. "I'll wait." Batman didn't bother asking him how he knew what was going on.

"Look, we're both busy," Superman said when he returned. He finally uncrossed his arms. "It's not my business to regulate crime fighting in Gotham. But I need you to know that if I hear a cry for help, if I see an impending train wreck, I can't not do something about it. In Gotham or anywhere else. Do you have a problem with that?"

"I have a problem with you interfering in every street conflict. I have a problem with you getting actively involved in cleaning up the Narrows. It won't work. You don't know Gotham."

"I can do things you can't, with your resources."

Bruce supplemented the growl produced by the Batman cowl. "It gets done. Gotham cannot survive Superman. We don't have the support system of Metropolis. You start saving people and Gotham will become dependent. The crime syndicates will shift around you and the business will change. The progress made at the street level would go back to scratch."

"Maybe you're right," Superman said. "Maybe not. That's the problem."

Bruce felt the cold fury burning in his chest, and gritted his teeth. Anyone else would be hanging over the street by now from his ankle. Superman's face was a blank; he might as well be wearing a mask. "No one asked you to make that decision."

"What you're doing, that's your mission, isn't it? You want to help Gotham." He didn't wait, so Bruce didn't have to come up with a reply. "I have a mission, as well. I'm going to need a better reason to ignore Gotham than the word of a man wearing the mask of a Bat." He rose off the pavement, and Bruce had to lift his chin to maintain eye contact. "I'll be seeing you again." He was gone in the space of one breath, and even Bruce had to be impressed.

And he still didn't know if Superman was his enemy or just an annoyance.

*

It took him three days. Clark wasn't sitting around waiting; he roamed Gotham freely, night and day--always as Clark Kent, journalist--and the information he gathered would be relevant as both background for the article he still planned and context the next time he spoke to Batman.

Bruce knocked on the door to his hotel room and he was bracing one forearm on the door frame when Clark scanned the door. He wore casual clothes, loose pants, dark sweater—nothing he would be photographed in—and a vaguely disgusted expression. Clark knew why he was here.

He swung the door open, greeted him simply, and let him come in. He bolted the door and listened closely for surveillance, one last time, before he turned back to the other man. "Sit down," he offered.

"Superman," Bruce said.

"Yes?"

"You are Superman," Bruce concluded.

"And you are Batman."

Bruce nodded slowly. "You wanted me to know."

Clark shrugged. "I rarely want people to *know* that, Bruce. But...you figured it out. You had to make certain connections to do that."

Bruce turned and paced across the room, tapping his fingers on the desk. "I have unlimited resources. You left Metropolis at the same time Superman disappeared. You returned when he did. It was a simple connection."

"Coincidence."

Bruce glanced at him. "Hardly."

"You'd be surprised how many people this--" Clark passed a hand over his face, in front of his glasses-- "can fool."

"You are quite convincing. The bumbling. Embarrassment. Falling over yourself--the cookies." Bruce frowned at him.

"It's not all pretend."

Bruce hesitated. "No." He turned and sat on the bottom of Clark's bed. "How long have you known who I am?"

"Since I met you in the alley as Batman."

"You looked through my mask."

"No."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. Clark just shook his head. Bruce paused. "You thought it was fair that you knew my identity but I didn't know yours?" The question carried no heat, but Bruce's body language conveyed rising animosity.

Clark sighed. "After you found out who I was, how long did you deliberate about confronting me here in my hotel room alone? Just long enough to decide it wasn't worth it to play dumb, I imagine." Bruce said nothing. "Because when you found out who I am, you knew whatever the threat was, it wasn't to your safety. Everyone knows what I do, everyone knows what I stand for because I can't go anywhere without making it obvious. You...you are more mysterious. I had to know you before I could trust you, Bruce." He eyed him, inquisitive. "Your methods are different. But surely you know the value of having certain people's trust."

"Certain people," Bruce repeated. He nodded, curtly. He crossed his arms. "Yet you seem to merely have certain people's *dis*trust."

Clark smiled. "Yes, well, certain people find me frightening by default." Bruce didn't smile. "Understanding why, I knew I could not parade around in a mask and do what--what can be done."

"So you mask your real life."

"What do you call it?" Clark shot back. Bruce acknowledged him with silence. "I'm taking a risk with you, Bruce. You know more about me than I know about you. Still. What are you going to do with that?"

Bruce looked at him, almost absently. "I wasn't looking for your secrets."

Clark nodded shortly. He moved across the room and sat down at Bruce's side. He offered his hand. "Bruce, we may work differently, but we do the same job in the end, don't we?"

Bruce took it. He gazed down at their clasped palms, seemingly fascinated. Then he looked up at Clark, eyes sparking with something like the first look Bruce Wayne turned on Clark Kent, just before he dragged him away from a boring charity brunch. "Do we?" He didn't let go of Clark's wrist. "I thought you hadn't decided yet."

By this time, Clark had enough exposure to this man that he recognized the sharp-toothed grin as both acceptance and challenge. "I'm not here to play principal and evaluate your performance, Bruce. It's rare enough to meet someone who deals with dual identity problems that I became...curious."

Bruce laughed. He dropped his hands back into his lap and looked at them. After a moment, he nodded. "Fine." He glanced up and he actually seemed to be smiling. "But you haven't seen anything yet."

*

Bruce silently shifted into the final pose as Alfred entered the gym and carried fresh linens directly to the changing room. Alfred had reason to feel smug at confirming his assessment of Clark Kent, but Bruce was not in the mood to indulge him. Hell, Bruce felt the same way the moment he met Kent, he just couldn't afford to make a nuisance of convincing himself to believe it.

"I replaced the linens in the Batcave, as well, Master Bruce," Alfred announced presently.

Bruce grimaced at the term. He lifted his feet off the mat and balanced them over his head. Unfortunately, it was still obvious Alfred overheard some of Clark's remarks during the tour he gave him that afternoon. "Alfred. You have got to stop doing that."

"Why, if I may ask, sir?" Alfred replied crisply. "I was under the impression you found it generally useful for me to know your business. As I recall, it has come in handy before." He continued folding towels, flicking each into a perfect square, one after the other.

Bruce glanced at him irritably, then closed his eyes. He breathed deeply into the pressure on his wrists, holding all of his weight.

"I should think you would be interested in this new venture of his, just the same, Master Bruce. However often you might publicly declaim your interest, you are still, at heart, a businessman."

Bruce grunted. "I work alone."

"That so. I am sure Miss Dawes would be happy to hear it, sir. Likewise Lieutenant Gordon, and Mr. Dent. Gotham's our home, too, sir." Alfred was leaving the room by the tone of his voice, as close to storming as he would ever get. "We do our part, too, best as we can."

Bruce held his pose rock-steady as the door closed gently behind him. Alfred's advice, always accurate, didn't always match Batman's priorities. There were matters to be weighed and questions Clark deemed himself open to. For now, there were muscles in need of conditioning and poses to be practiced. The very real necessities of Batman's abilities came before Superman's quixotic dreams.

*

Bruce felt a little ridiculous. His cape was a tool, and a useful one when in use, but draped across a building ledge and commingling in the breeze with Superman's, it just looked silly. Superman tucked his between his leg and his knee to keep it from the breeze, and surveyed Gotham serenely. "It looks a lot better up here, I have to admit."

"I'm fond of it," Batman responded tersely.

"Well, you were born and raised here. Gotham royalty. I--I guess I sort of feel that way about Earth in general."

Bruce looked at him carefully behind Batman's mask. He meant it. The man's honesty was a force unto itself, and disarming--even to him. "I'm not you. Gotham is all I'm interested in."

Superman returned his glance. "I'm not so sure. Gotham isn't completely cut off from the outside world and you know it. What happens out there--" he gestured vaguely to the west, "influences what happens here."

Bruce remained firm. Batman's voice helped. "Anything that distracts me from Gotham compromises my focus, and I need that to do my work. Unlike you, I don't have the superhuman ability to concentrate on an entire world of problems."

Superman paused. "Oh, I've been known to miss a thing from time to time," he said in a low voice. He wasn't really Superman--not that blank slate of a man, symbolic of flashy goodness and American optimism--but he wasn't Clark Kent, embarrassed but insightful journalist, either. This man was both of those and something else, a result of the contrast in between. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder and tightened his grasp, just for a moment, because the man could be hurt--but he shouldn't be.

"I'm driven to help Gotham. But I know my limits...Superman."

"Kal," he said. "My real name is Kal."

Bruce nodded curtly.

"I'm not asking you to take on the world's responsibility. Even I can't shoulder everything." Superman smiled unassumingly. "But there are more people out there who are working to do what we do, to make a difference. And if we knew each other, if we worked out a system of trust, then when it was necessary--and *only* then--we could share the responsibility, and the planet would benefit."

"And you could take another five year vacation," Bruce replied. Alfred would be ashamed of his manners, but Superman wielded his vulnerability like a weapon, and Bruce wasn't reckless enough to let him under his guard. He wore this armor for a reason.

"That will never happen again," he replied quietly. "I'm committed here."

"You have a spotty record," Bruce answered roughly. "You seem to trust me now, Kal. What makes you think I trust you?"

Clark curled further into his crouch, resting his chin on his arm. "I don't know, Bruce. Maybe because I have faith in you." He rose up and Bruce realized the grace of the movement was due to the fact that he simply stepped off the ledge and stood in the air. He gazed up at the man, a blur of color imposed on a dim Gotham cityscape. "I am what I am," he stated coolly. "You know the truth. Don't deliberate too long over its best use, or you will lose the same soul you're trying to give back to Gotham."

Batman scowled. "Don't preach to me, alien."

Superman smiled. "I respect your decisions. I'm only telling you my opinion." He paused, floating backward on the current. "For what it's worth, I'm not sure I can do this without you. And it is something I truly believe needs doing."

"Stop," Bruce said, and stood. "You're offering me full partnership with veto power."

"Approval, designs, whatever you want. We pick the members together, and I'll do all the recruitment and publicity myself."

"Then I'll do it." Batman crossed his arms. "You'd do it without me anyway."

Superman grinned. He shivered under his skin, with strangely boyish excitement. He crossed his own arms, as if to hold it in. "No, I wouldn't. Bureaucracy is my weakness."

Batman glowered at him.

But he took off his gauntlet when Superman extended his hand.

*

"Superman-Batman Alliance!"

The story was printed on the front page of the _Daily Planet._ It was Clark Kent's first solo byline for page one.

When he entered Richard White's office, the other man had his feet kicked up on his desk and was talking rapidly into his phone. He held up two fingers and smiled easily at Clark. "I've gotta go, Jerry. My new star reporter just walked in."

Clark blushed sheepishly, the back of his foot hitting the door frame as he side-stepped nervously. "Uh, gee--"

"Clark," Richard greeted him warmly, ignoring the embarrassment. "It's good to have you back. Can I rely on you to keep up this kind of work ethic now you're back in Metropolis?"

Clark's eyes widened.

"Don't worry, I won't expect this kind of story every day--not that it's a bad idea to aim for it. Whatever attitude got you this kind of scoop in Gotham, apply it here, that's all I'm asking. We’re on the same page, aren’t we, Clark?"

Clark nodded. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "Thank you for taking a risk on me, Richard," he said seriously. The door opened behind him while he held Richard's gaze.

Richard brushed it off. "I knew you'd come through, Kent. I didn't get this job by nepotism alone, you know." He grinned. They both looked up to acknowledge Lois, as she tossed a file onto Richard's desk.

"Don't look at me," Lois said, turning on her heel and casting a glance at Clark's forehead. "I told him he was nuts to write off a week's hotel bill on spec. You snagged the event of the year." She tossed her hands up as she left.

Clark looked after her fondly. He supposed, in the end, it was better that few of the people closest to him scrutinized him. His job as Superman tended to overwhelm everyone who came into contact with it, until there was nothing left in his relationships but what he could do, or what he did. But he wanted to remember how normal people lived, and having a normal life meant people who didn't care, people who didn't connect, and people who didn't write down every word that came out of his mouth in public. It meant people who overlooked him, because his life was far less important to them than what was happening in theirs.

He turned back to Richard, who was watching him speculatively. Clark stammered, "Um. How's Jason?"

"He's good." Richard nodded. "Very...he has a soccer game this afternoon, actually, and Lois has a dinner. Feel like ducking out of work early to put in some quality time sucking up to the boss?"

"For--a soccer game?" Clark repeated, stunned.

Richard shrugged. "Fresh air, bunch of kids feeling like heroes. It's more fun than it sounds. I'll even let you have some pizza."

Clark hurried to smile as Richard clarified the suggestion. "No, it sounds--yeah, that'd be great. I don't get many offers to hang out since I moved back, thank you."

"I thought so," Richard replied simply. He rolled his chair back toward his computer. "Jason will be happy to see you," he added, without looking up.

"Okay," Clark said, backing out of the office. He wasn't familiar with the feeling, but he thought this might be how breathless felt. Maybe most of the time normal life felt dull in comparison to being Superman, but the chance Richard just offered him was like saving the world to Clark Kent. 

*

"Master Kent will be staying at Wayne Manor next time he visits Gotham, I assume, sir."

Bruce peered at Alfred as he pulled the towel off his sweat-soaked head. "That was uncommonly straightforward for you, Alfred," he remarked.

"After all, sir, he cannot be making excuses to visit Gotham as Clark Kent every time he wants to visit, and we do want to encourage him to feel free to stop by. You may be working odd hours on this new Justice League project, and we have room enough here, I think." Alfred's voice was dry, but Bruce knew him too well. He smiled.

"Fine," he agreed. "Keep a bedroom ready and I'll give him access to security."

"I should hope so, Master Bruce," Alfred said, and promptly moved to dislodge himself from Bruce's side. For the first time all week. 

"And Alfred," Bruce called, as he cleared the doorway.

He turned back, hand on the door knob. "Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Make sure you keep cookies on hand in the pantry."

"Indeed," Alfred replied promptly. "And if I may say so, wouldn't hurt you to eat one now and again, out of politeness to your guest." He knew better than to wait for a response, and bowed out of the room, closing the door quietly.

He left the paper on the table by Bruce's water. The S-shield and the Bat, emblazoned together on the front of the _Daily Planet._ It was faintly disturbing, like a caricature of Superman's earnest face on Batman's ominous body. Bruce shook his head and pushed the paper aside with two fingers.

He supposed he'd have to get used to it.


End file.
